Heart Of London
by 221Bowties
Summary: This is just my take on what happens next after The Reichenbach Fall. -I do not own any of the characters unless otherwise stated-


After The Fall

It had been a year since his fall. Dr. John Watson had been moping around, remembering that day like it was yesterday. He was broken. Thinking, wondering, fearing, had become his hobbies. Not much could scare John; he'd seen so much despair in his life already. But the death of his best friend, the reality it brought down on him; that's what scared him. The horribly graphic nightmares that came along with the fear induced thoughts of never seeing his friend ever again, scared him. At the moment, Watson, who had been sitting at the mahogany table in his flat since 4A.M, was being eaten alive by memories. Every grueling day, these memories got worse. It was as if John was always chained to the insides of his mind. The body he lived in was not filled with excitement, determination, hope, or happiness anymore. It was now a dark dungeon cell. No light entered through the cell windows. No love or sense of care was written in the black shadows permanently etched into the cold walls. Watson smashed his hands down on the table, making the empty tea cup that was settled on the small saucer in front of him rattle loudly.

"Why!?" He yelled to nothing in particular. John closed his eyes tightly as he balled his fists. He was so upset with himself. How could he have let Sherlock fall. _How? _And more importantly, why did he jump? Had John found something more in Sherlock than just a witty, mysterious, business-like, brilliant, confusing, sarcastic, cheeky bastard? John shook his head. That was a dumb question. He _had _found something more in Sherlock. He'd found a friend. John thought back to the devastating fall and what Sherlock's few last words were. Was he really the fake he said he was? _No_. John stopped the thought cold. He'd never let himself believe Sherlock was really a fake, or dead, for that matter. Sherlock Holmes was a man always with a plan. He just couldn't die like that. He couldn't. Or… could he…? Sure, Sherlock walked and talked like a generated machine, but he did have a heart, and like any heart, it could stop beating. John's thoughts wandered off to other things, the fact that Sherlock was really only just human upsetting him. John opened his eyes, looking around the flat. He stared blankly at Sherlock's dusty violin, his eyes glistening.

"Please, just come back…I'm so alone again." He whispered, leaning back in the chair. John looked out the window, seeing light snow through the lightly frosted window. Suddenly, Ms. Hudson came through the door, looking at John. John barely glanced at her, sighing inwardly.

"John dear," Ms. Hudson, the flats landlady's, voice broke through the silent flat. "I'm worried for you. You know you can't keep moping around for years. It's not healthy." John cleared his throat.

"I don't care if it isn't healthy." He said.

"Oh John, please. Just go out for a drink or something? You can't spend the rest of your life moping and doing nothing." Ms. Hudson said desperately. "You've got to move on." John flinched at those words. That stung John every time she said it. Ms. Hudson had been doing this for the past three years, trying to get John to go out and do something with his life other than mope around. But John never listened. Until today.

"Alright, alright. Fine." John huffed, standing up. He would do it just this once, to make her happy.

"What?" Ms. Hudson asked, taken aback.

"I said fine." John repeated, his voice emotionless and distant. He stood up, fixing his dressing gown.

"Oh good." Ms. Hudson gave off a small smile and then eyed him.

"What?" John asked as he started trudging toward the door.

"You aren't going out like that, are you?" Ms. Hudson questioned.

"I am, why do you ask? Is there an issue?" John asked, turning to her and blinking.

"Goodness gracious, it's cold, dear. Go! Go get dressed!" Ms. Hudson waved him off. John closed his eyes briefly, letting out a sigh and turning back around, opening his eyes and sulking over to the room with the limp he had thought disappeared three years ago and changed into a tan jumper and trousers. He replaced his slippers with socks and his brown shoes. He walked back out and walked over to the coat rack, pulling on his coat. He then found his gloves and pulled them on as well.

"I've already called a cab for you." Mrs. Hudson said warmly.

"I appreciate it, Ms. Hudson, thank you." John gave a short nod and opened the door, hobbling down the steps and out of the building. He stepped outside into the chilly weather and shivered, looking around himself at the snowy buildings and the iced over streets of London. Cars were still buzzing around and people were still walking along the streets. It very rarely changed in London; the people there were always moving about. Life continued on even if it lost someone as magnificent as Sherlock. John only waited a few more minutes before the cab Ms. Hudson called rolled up in front of him. He slightly limped to the door of the cab, opening it and settling himself inside.

"Where too?" The cabbie asked.

"Uhm, Tapas Brindisa Restaurant, thanks." John said, shutting the cab door. John looked out the window. The cab lurched forward, distorting the images outside the window John was looking out of. He played with his gloved hands, feeling nostalgia as he looked at the buildings passing by. John looked over into the cab mirror, looking at his reflection. His hair was long and straggly, obviously unattended to. On his face, a thick beard forming. He hadn't shaved in four months. He'd long given up on taking care of his appearance. But his eyes. His eyes looked vacant and lost. His mouth sagged down into a permanent frown, any signs that he had smile lines not shown. He looked older than he was. He didn't know the face of the man in the reflection. Nor did he want to know that man. He looked back out the window, getting lost in the blurred buildings. It took him a while before he realized that they had already passed by the restaurant he was headed too. He cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, I believe you've passed by the restaurant…" He said, looking at the man through the mirror. The man gave a short nod, not turning the car around. "Aren't you going to turn around?" John asked, waiting for an answer. He got no response. "Sir, where are you going?" John continued to ask questions, getting no answer to any of them. The cab rolled to a stop in front of a snowy field. John stopped asking questions, letting silence fill the cab momentarily.

"Why are we here?" John's British accent cut into the silence.

"Come." The cabbie said, getting out of the car and stepping into the snow. John shook his head, staying put as he watched the cabbie stop and turn, walking back to the cab when he realized John didn't follow. He opened John's door, taking his arm and dragging him out. John pulled his arm away from the cabbie, shooting a glare at him. The cabbie paid no notice to the glare, walking as he waved John to follow. Stopping in the middle of the field, the cabbie turned to him, fixing the sunglasses that rested upon his pale face. _That's strange. Why would he be wearing sunglasses in such dull weather like this? _John asked himself as he stopped a few ways in front of him, making sure not to get to close.

"Can I help you with something?" John asked, completely befuddled.

"Yes, I'd like you to not freak out." The cabbie said, his voice strangely familiar to John. He hadn't noticed it before when he first got in the cab. His voice was too familiar, actually. But the man that stood before him, gave him no clue as to who he was. He didn't recognize his facial features. John's eyebrows pulled together as he shifted his weight.

"Alright." He nodded shortly. The cabbie took his hat off, revealing a bald head. John watched him, narrowing his eyes in utter confusion. The cabbie then removed his sunglasses. His eyes were a shade of silvery blue with a tint of green. John straightened his posture as he stared at his eyes, feeling like he was looking into the eyes of a past friend. John shook his head. He couldn't think of Sherlock. He couldn't bring him up all the time. He was gone, and that was that. Even if it hurt. Next, the cabbie slowly took off a mask. _A mask. _John stepped back. There stood before him, was a dear friend. Not a cabbie, but a friend. A best friend. John stood in silence, completely astounded. It couldn't be Sherlock. Could it? The man before him had shiny blackish brown curly hair, the same height, the same eyes, and the same voice. The same features. The same everything. John couldn't believe it.

"I'm not dead." The voice John hadn't heard in so long spoke. Emotions took over John, ones he hadn't experienced in a long time. Foreign emotions. They seemed to knock John off his feet, so to speak.

"Sherlock?!" John asked in disbelief. John rolled up his coat and jumper sleeves and then pinched himself. "I am going mad." He muttered to himself and then waited for Sherlock's image to dissolve, but it didn't. "Wha-" John was cut off.

"John," Sherlock's gaze penetrated through John's. "No time for questions, we have a case."

"Bloody hell!" John blinked wildly, as if to rid of the image in front of him.

"For God's sake John." Sherlock huffed. "Stop it, you aren't hallucinating." John suddenly was overcome with emotions. In a flurry of colorful words, John yelled at Sherlock.

"I saw you fall! I was there, I saw it all happen before me. You've got to be kidding me! I'll be damned!" John scratched his head, obviously annoyed.

"Jo-" Sherlock started.

"No!" John pointed his finger at Sherlock. "You. You were dead." He shook his finger slightly. "Do you not realize what you've just put me through for the past bloody year? This is absolutely absurd! I thought you were _dead_ Sherlock. I almost couldn't get myself to believe it, but months went by, and I ended up coming to a sort of peace with myself. I know, I should be happy you are actually alive, and I am, but did you really have to fake being dead for so damned long? You could have contacted me earlier, but oh no, you couldn't be bothered with that, could ya? Why did you jump in the first place? How did you even fake your death for so long? What the hell, were you thinking? You can't just waltz back into my life and expect me to be the jolliest chap in town and welcome you back with warm arms!" John sputtered, clearly becoming angrier and angrier. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John," Sherlock tried to get out a few words.

"Piss off!" John shouted and then turned around. He stomped a few ways before turning back around, and without thinking, pulled his arm back and swung at Sherlock, full on.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't expecting that sort of thing from John. He'd never seen his, yes, friend get so enraged. But Sherlock knew, under all those layers of despise, John was indeed, happy. His eyes and the way John was leaning toward him slightly when they were talking told him everything. Sherlock staggered backwards from the blow of John's punch.

"John, could you do me a favor and stop being so irrational and let me explain?" Sherlock asked as he held his pale, bony hand to his reddened, bloody cheekbone. He watched John expectantly. John's shoulders sagged in defeat but his facial expression never changed; it kept an angry glare. Sherlock smirked slightly as he watched his blogger turn into the soldier that he used to be. "It's all simple really," Sherlock said, observing John. His eyes roamed over his coat, obviously not worn often. That meant John hadn't left the house or… flat or whatever he was living in now, much. Then his eyes darted to John's thick beard forming and his scraggly, dullish blonde hair. John had stopped taking care of his appearance approximately four months ago. Sherlock continued to observe as he spoke the next few words. "I faked my death because if I didn't, you, Ms. Hudson, and Lestrade would have died." John was silent, his face terse. Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's clenched jaw momentarily. John was still angry at him. Sherlock sighed inwardly, waiting for any sign of John to realize what he was talking about. John straightened his back out, narrowing his eyes, deep in thought. Sherlock waited, looking to the sky and then looking back at John. John's expression became less tense within seconds as his mouth slightly fell agape.

"Moriarty…" John mumbled in a quiet voice. Sherlock gave a short nod. Sherlock took his hand off his face, bringing his arm back down to his side.

"Sherlock, why did you come back now? What made you come back?"

"A case." Sherlock said, avoiding John's first question and not willing to admit that it was really John who'd made him came back. It was hard for even Sherlock to admit to himself; that he missed someone. But John just wasn't someone, was he? He was more than just a someone, he was a friend.

"Cases." John said incredulously. "That's all it is with you. Cases, cases and cases." John muttered.

"Like I said, I am married to my work." Sherlock said calmly, blinking slowly.

"I'm not going to help you unless I get answers, and answers _now_." Sherlock let out a sigh. John was exactly how he remembered him, always digging for more information, and trying to get it his way. But Sherlock, being the devious mastermind he was, could always get his way instead. John shifted his weight to his left leg. Sherlock's eyes flickered to his leg momentarily before resting back upon his face. If Sherlock kept keeping away information, his leg would probably get worse. With another sigh, Sherlock decided telling him at least something would help the stress.

"What questions are there to ask?" He tilted his head slightly. "First off," John started. "How in god's name are you standing in front of me when I saw you on that sidewalk, blood everywhere, and with no pulse? Explain everything, would ya? Have you been watching me this whole time? Oh-ho-ho. If you have, you, my dear friend are going to face hell." John spat. Sherlock watched John before starting to chuckle slightly. "What in the bloody hell are you laughing at?" John asked.

"You think you are threatening me. You don't scare me at all, you know." _What a lie,_ Sherlock thought. _You do scare me. You are one of the three people in my life that actually has power over hurting me. Not physically, but emotionally. _Sherlock mentally slapped himself for letting someone get that close to him, _and_ letting something so little scare him. But emotions were a whole different thing for Sherlock. At least now Sherlock realized that he did in fact, have a heart. But having a heart, was that advantageous or disadvantageous? That was one of the few things Sherlock really didn't know.

_"_Just answer the damn questions, Sherlock." John narrowed his eyes.

"Why? Really, why should I?" Sherlock knew he deserved answers, but he just wouldn't let him get answers without a challenge.

"Always so stubborn, so spiteful." John said, laughing emotionlessly. "You are exactly the same."

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock asked.

"People change." John shrugged.

"Yes, but I don't." Sherlock spoke confidently. Sherlock saw John's eyebrow raise. "What? I really don't."

"Yeah," John said. "Keep trying to convince yourself that." John shook his head. "Sherlock, why do you always insist things like this? You are human, you know. Underneath all that," John waved his finger at Sherlock's pale, blank face in a circular motion. "There is a human, who cares whether he wants to or not, who's emotions have just been shut off, so to speak, to protect himself from emotional pain." John then gazed at Sherlock peculiarly. "Don't think I don't see what you are doing here. Quit stalling and give me some answers."

"What? Stalling?" Sherlock repeated the word innocently. In return, John rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay." Sherlock gave in with a heavy sigh. He didn't feel like ruffling John's feathers up any further. "I guess you deserve a few answers. How did I fake that fall, you ask? Well it's quite simple, really-"

"For you it is." John scoffed. Sherlock blinked.

"_Shut up_ and let me talk." He said. "As I was saying," He gave John a glare. "It quite simple, if you have the right people on your side, and you are intelligent enough to pull it off. Now, what do you remember about that day?" Sherlock asked. John gave him a glare.

"Are you_ really_ doing this right now? _Really?_"John asked.

"Yes." Sherlock said. John growled.

"What do I remember, yeah? Well, I remember you jumping off a building and then dying." John shrugged.

"Every situation, you see but don't observe." Sherlock shook his head. "Come on John, think!" Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders. "Close your eyes and think!"

"Why do you always insist that I close my eyes?" John asked.

"Close your eyes!" Sherlock snarled. John obeyed after staring Sherlock down.

"Now what?" John asked.

"Remember." Sherlock ordered as he stared at John.

* * *

John knew he was being observed by that calculating stare of Sherlock's. He could almost see those multi-colored eyes watching his every movement, every facial expression, observing everything. John was still burning with anger. Desperate anger. He'd actually believed Sherlock really left the world. Even though he'd repeated to himself countless times that he'd never believe it. And that upset him even more than Sherlock faking his death.

"John, are you remembering?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, Sherlock." John sighed, trying his best to remember every single little thing that happened. "I don't remember much, Sherlock. I only remember the way you fell, almost seemingly flying, and blood."

"Exactly." Sherlock said in a matter-of-factly tone.

"What?" John asked, puzzled.

"You don't remember how I landed though, correct?" Sherlock questioned. John opened his eyes as his eyebrows pulled together in a line of confusion.

"No… I don't…" He scratched his head. How did he not remember that? This whole situation was more than bizarre.

"Why don't you remember?" Sherlock asked, his quizzical eyes staring into John's baffled ones.

"I-I…A person on a bike hit me!" John suddenly said. "Oh my God, Sherlock. Don't tell me…" John came to a realization. Sherlock clapped his hands together as he half smirked.

"Great, John. Have you deduced anything yet?" Sherlock asked.

"You set that biker up," John started, his tongue treading on his words. "And all the people around you, they were just a part of the act too, weren't they?" John asked, unsure.

"Yes, they were." Sherlock nodded.

"But your pulse…" John trailed off, watching his warm breath surround the cold wintery air around him.

"Now that, I will have you remember later." Sherlock said, lifting his arm up and rolling up his right sleeve slightly to reveal his watch. He quickly looked at the time and then set his arm back down. "We have a case to solve. And John, I can't be seen. I have to be kept a secret until I've fixed a few things. You mustn't let anyone know I'm alive."

"Why would I ever say anything to anyone about that?" John asked, staring at Sherlock, trying to read his expression, but like usual it was unreadable and blank. Silently, Sherlock made his way around John and started off to the car, taking long strides. John turned.

"Sherlock, I hate you." John said with a grin and then ran over and enveloped his best friend in a bear hug. Sherlock tensed.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, turning his head to look down at John with cautious eyes.

"What does it look like?" John asked sarcastically. "I'm hugging you." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John saw and felt him relax. John caught onto that. He knew Sherlock was uneducated in feelings or anything that had to do with emotions. "You do know what a hug is, right?"

"Yes, yes I know what a hug is, John." Sherlock said tastelessly.

"I'm not quite sure you do." John looked at him. Sherlock shrugged John off. John smiled slightly, taking that as a _'fine, I really don't know what a hug is or what it means.'_

"You are wasting precious time to catch a killer." Sherlock muttered in an anxious voice as he strode toward the cab.

"Sherlock, I know nothing about this case." John said, following after Sherlock.

"Get in the cab and I will explain." Sherlock turned and looked at him expectantly before getting into the driver's seat and turning the cab on. John made his way to the cab, grinning to himself. He had his best friend back, and he could leave the past to the past. He could go back to his normal self, but it would take time. But now, he could go back to solving cases with the best detective in the world.

* * *

Oh gosh, I really do hope I have got Sherlock's character down good. He's actually pretty hard to write, and it's a nice challenge. I quite like it. Even John's a bit hard to write. Maybe I just have to get to know them more, even though I know so much. If you have any constructive criticism, please do tell! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.

**-I do not own any of the characters unless otherwise stated-**


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